The Gray Fixation
by Behest.R
Summary: SLASH. Holmes/ Watson. Everything was always black and white for them. Realizing their affections, not falling into it and attempting to conquer it, was a shade they had not expected to encounter.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR's NOTE: **Hello. This is my first Sherlock Holmes fan fiction, I fell absolutely in love with the characters after watching Game of Shadows. It is largely inspired my the talented **Candle Beck**'s writings, especially**_ 'Mistakes of our Youth'_**. I was planning on making it a one-shot, but it is far too long. There will be about one or two more chapters for this.

Summary: Everything was always black and white for them. The facts. The imaginations. Realizing their affections, not falling into it and attempting to conquer it, was a shade they had not expected to encounter.

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><p><strong>X.x.X<strong>

**.**

Holmes found that he just might be a bit too comfortable with the designs of his madness. He believed it so, because there wasn't any other way to explain the fact that he had yet to find a solution for it...albeit his insufferable struggle to.

He sat in his apartment, slumped over a haggard piece of paper as he wrote down his findings for the day.

There had been a missing case of a constable's niece who had come over to London to celebrate the festive season. Young woman of sixteen. Visited town regularly, undoubtedly during most holidays. A young man around the age of eighteen, newly trained into the military was also amiss for the past two days. Based on the information from her uncle -_which he did not necessarily need to dig to come to this conclusion, but found himself with too much free time on his hands not to_- she had met a young boy who became a regular friend of hers over the years she visited. But he had yet to meet the said 'friend' in person.

It was definitely the most memorable way to show responsibility for a child thrust into one's hands, he had mused on the side while he half-listened to the constable's ramblings .

The young lady was definitely of the age for hopeless sentimental subjects to stay affixed in her thoughts.

Holmes already made the connection that the young man was with her immediately after finding that he was amiss around the same time of the day as she was...which meant she was under no harm under him because her absence was of mutual grounds.

But where would they have fled to?

He flipped his pen nonchalantly over and around his fingers, before dropping it onto the paper.

He knew all too well that a few words with the young man's parents in regards to the places their son sought the most comfort in would lead him right to their hiding spot. The military drafts were to be put out soon and the young man was most likely going to be pushed into service. Therefore the entire action associated with risqué _love,_ such as taking flight with said _loved one_ could not ensue.

The biting compilation of problems he was having was definitely not the case. It was actually so void of thrill that it was particularly _insulting_ to his person.

The actual problem was getting _a certain_ John Watson out of everything that his brain controlled. Hence his agreements to this case and many more of the like, to distract his train of thoughts from aligning ever so readily back to his flatmate.

Watson was on the paper he was reading, because he really didn't seem to care much for such_ 'duties'_ as his flatmate referred it to be, and Watson was always wholeheartedly indulged in its _more-often-than-not_ ridiculous content. He was on the doorstep, just watching him with an expression Holmes calculated as mildly affectionate and overtly exasperated as he set to work; tense from lack of sleep, drugged from well, _drugs _and starving his way through the days to keep alert on the job.

He was behind him; on his shoulder where his hands lingered before he picked up his hat and dashed off this afternoon for a walk, which recently always turned into a drunken night out.

He was in everything he was not meant to be, twisting Holmes's very being into an irrational scream of _want._

And he could come up with a dozen dozens in respect to variations of just what he wanted from him; how he wanted him; when; where- that really didn't seem to matter, for at this time of his frustration no place really was out stroked by him. But for the life of him, he could not wrap his mind to deduce _why _he wanted him so.

The only answer, unreasonable and pointless, - but ever so rigid as a wall concealing every truth but one- was that he just did. And the fact that he couldn't rationalize this one absurdity was making him begin to scramble for his sensibilities.

The entire ordeal had frustration biting at him. It had been for several months at least, if Holmes dared his thoughts to relapse.

He couldn't find the solution anywhere. Not when he tried to lay out the premises on paper. Not when they stayed affixed in his head in a semi-logical manner, before trailing off into rather _irrational, irresistible_ thoughts.

_Watson._

Holmes ran his calloused fingers through his wild, dark hair, forcing in a breath.

If he could not find the solution to his problem anywhere else, then the last resort was to ask the subject of the issue for one.

**X.x.X**

**.**

The subject of the unfortunate collapse of Holmes's mental uprightness came pacing back towards their home. He pushed the apartment door open, stalking in and bringing with him the remainder of the day's sunlight in the shape of a rather beaming smile. The sun must have had an eerie amount of alcohol at its disposal because that particular beaming smile was a _very drunk one_, Holmes thought offhandedly.

He turned back to the table, picking up his forgotten pen.

"Care to share?" Holmes asked nonchalantly.

He resigned himself to scribbling more useless nothings about the case on one of the papers in front of him. He heard Watson pause in his steps for a few seconds at the question, before struggling out of his coat and dumping it on the sofa.

He followed shortly, collapsing right against his coat.

"Care to share what?"

"The reasons for the rather..._ jolly_ expression mapped across your face". Holmes continued his scribbling, like it was of the upmost importance. At this point it probably was. Anything that could distract him for even a _moment _from Watson was virtually important.

"Isn't it always the same? Whatever could sour my expression,_ Holmes_?" Watson said with a mischievous hint to his drawled out words.

"I was led to believe anything but I would, my man." He replied with a light smirk, finally turning from his table to watch Watson. Dark eyes traced over his friend's form in a calculating manner. His doctor managed a small smile in response.

"So, how went your night?"

Watson quirked a brow.

"...the same as always. Was anything supposed to be different?" He asked, with a flavor of suspicion to his inquiry.

His eyes seemed to have lost the over cloud of drunken stupor, and he sat a bit more upright, his posture tense over the thought of Holmes's probable intrusion into his day. He was trying hard to find focus on his friend's face in the dim light.

Holmes noticed his eyes searching, and brightened the lamplight beside him, aiding Watson to find him in the relatively dark room.

"I didn't tamper with your good night, Watson. My curiosities are merely for the purpose of small talk." He held Watson's gaze as he spoke, so he could see the authenticity of his words.

Watson felt the sudden need to sober up regardless of whether his body had the capacity for such actions or not, sensing the seriousness in the voice speaking from across the room. He was sitting almost completely upright at this point, his eyes holding those of the detective.

"We seem to be lacking in that area recently." Holmes stated rather smoothly, though the tighter grip of his pen told otherwise. _This was going to be the furthest thing from a smooth conversation._

He heard Watson's breath hitch from where he sat, and his flatmate slowly broke their long-locked gaze, finding comfort in the newspaper on the table beside him.

"I know..."

The silence poured in after that, filling the room with discomfort.

Watson shifted in his seat, flicking his fingers through the pages of the day's newspaper and Holmes's attention loyally followed. He watched as Watson's long fingers traced along the edge of a page of the newspaper; flicking it towards his direction, and then away. His dark eyes slowly left his friend's nervous display, settling once more on his face. His intricate, _ordinary,_ _absolutely breathtaking_ face.

It was always able to display the best and not-so-good emotions that the man harbored. Like his current troubled, something short of _angry expression?_ – No. it was an '_in no need for conversations with unexpected turns_' expression.

He closed his eyes just a short moment before Watson turned his blue ones back to him.

**X.x.X**

**.**

Holmes finally spoke to break the long, wordless minutes.

"Have I done something that I am unaware of to merit your aversion?" Holmes asked. When all he got in response from his friend was a wide eyed expression, he almost wrapped his entire resolve at that. But he pressed forward instead.

"You usually just let me know what terrible deed has been done by me, so I can have an apology in wait if it so pleases you. Why have I not been warned of your treatment this time? A new method?" He said dryly, his eyes darting occasionally across the room. They landed back of their focal point_- Watson-_and found that his alarmed expression was currently bordering on full-blown dumbstruck. His lips were parted open, as if to say something hopefully intelligible in regards to an explanation.

Watson stared at Holmes, and Holmes stared right back, awaiting the glorious explanation to dissolve all difficulties that followed their coexistence.

Watson closed his mouth after a moment of recovery, and then parted his lips again.

"I would say that the one doing wonders with this 'new method'is you, Holmes. You've been taking some rather _challenging_ cases recently." Watson bit out, his hands held as fists against his knee. He did not like wherever this conversation was threading.

Holmes made the move to exert an equally harsh comeback but stopped midair. He sighed, slumping into his chair.

"We have been avoiding each other's presence, Watson..."

"No we've not! Well, _I've not._ I'm just rather busy." He protested.

The detective leaned against the chair in thought, his jaws clenched in irritation. Why did this have to be so hard for them?

_For him?_

He found it safe to pursue the conversation on the grounds that he was right about their avoidances of each other. He knew that Watson would be unable to deny this as fact if he pressed further. So he did.

" You've been rather tense lately. Especially around me, I presume. You leave the house to work earlier than usual. You're always home for a short while. In the times that _you are_ home, you find something to occupy yourself with to ensure that there is little conversation between us. You have little to no interest in accompanying me with my cases. And your afternoon strolls around town...well, the time on the clock largely indicates that it _isn't_ afternoon right now." Holmes said with an air of finality, his eyes burning intensely in the dark that surrounded them.

Watson gulped down whatever retort he was planning to make after Holmes spoke, because he could see that the man's eyes had a ring of frustration to them. He could see how much this affected his friend and the sight put him at a loss. He definitely hadn't anticipated this.

"_H-_how..." He choked, pausing, and then scrambling for the right words once again.

"_Where did this begin_?" Watson managed, almost to himself. He felt discomforted by the weak sound of his voice. But he couldn't bother too long with that.

Holmes waved his hand in the air, gesturing his thoughts before settling to put them into words.

"A week? _A month?_ That does not matter. What matters is that it is happening. And I would like to get to the root of the problem."

"What is it that bothers you? My eccentricities? I had presumed that you would be quite accustomed to my behaviours by now."

Watson almost stopped breathing.

Holmes was actually considering the idea that he was bothered by his..._eccentricities_ to the point where it had pushed him over the edge? It was a part of Holmes. It was what made Sherlock Holmes. Sure, it irked him sometimes, but of course he was used to it and more...

"It's really nothing. I just thought that you weren't up for much company and I kept to myself. It took me a while to realise that it had become quite routine. I honestly didn't know it was going to affect us so. I believed it was what you wanted." Watson said, measuring his words as he spoke.

Holmes's eyes lingered on him long after he spoke, as though he was trying to find a crack in his words. It was the truth; almost- _and god so help me that he does not find a crack because if he does-and he always does- then I'll have to say everything and I'll be screwed._

_We'll be through._

Watson lifted his hands from where they sat on his knees to thread them through his hair in apprehension.

"That is not all. It does not explain the tension on your end. It must have begun somewhere."

The doctor felt painfully sober now.

"I thought it _didn't matter_ where it began." The words where meant to thread light on sarcasm but came out harsh, defensive. Watson winced.

Holmes reclined into the comfort of his chair at that, remaining silent. He was trying hard to keep his calm. It was hard not to counter everything that the doctor said and vice versa. There was little progression. And the last thing he wanted was to get into a vicious argument with Watson, all in an attempt to make things better. He wanted them to be good. _Very good,_ if possible.

"Why don't you tell me what is bothering _you_?" John asked.

Holmes remained silent; unmoving. But Watson was sure that a plethora of exemplary excuses were aligning in his brain at this moment. And he was not so sure he was ready to hear any of them.

The detective sat upright again, his dark eyes determined.

"It regards you, Watson. It is something that I can't quite decipher."

Watson was about to laugh at the ridiculousness of his friend's words _because obviously it involves me_- but he fell silent once his eyes read Holmes's expression. He looked...troubled by his conviction. If there was anything to go by based on the time he had spent with Holmes, it was to know that the consulting detective did not let such emotions crawl onto his features freely.

This meant that the large crack in Holmes demeanor which was letting so much- so much in the sense that it was Sherlock Holmes- show, was not just an expression of mere puzzlement.

It was an expression of_ damage._

"What is it?" He found himself asking before he could take it back. And he desperately wanted to take it back because he didn't want to know.

He didn't want to know that Holmes knew that he had the oddest designs of affection for his best friend which he definitely was not supposed to have.

He didn't want to know that Holmes was aware of the prolonged stares that threw the word _normal_ right into a black hole.

He didn't want to know that Holmes knew and that was why Holmes had been avoiding him. And why he had been subconsciously avoiding Holmes.

_Oh god...this was going to get so bloody messed up in such little time._

Watson shook his head, pressing the bridge of his nose with his fingers in an effort to calm his nerves. Then he raised his head to try to find Holmes- but the detective was standing right in front of him. _When -how long had he been lost in thought?_

Watson stared at his friend's form, flabbergasted.

"H-Holmes..."

"If you wouldn't think for a moment, then you just might understand the height of my dilemma." Holmes said, his face displaying the smallest hint of uncertainty. It quickly thinned into resolve before the doctor's eyes.

He risked a look into the Holmes's eyes. His eyes were so dark and searching- so beautiful and_ oh s_o close. Watson almost gained the illusion that the entire world reflecting in Holmes's eyes at that moment was him. He forced himself to look away from the intensity in his friend's gaze.

He watched the high rise and fall of Holmes's chest.

"Can you do this, Watson?" Holmes asked; his voice thick with emotions that were _too close_ for Watson to pick apart and sort.

Too close.

The doctor found his lips parting, ready to ask lamely, '_do what, Holmes'?_

And then a pair of lips was pressed chastely against his to give him the answer.

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><p><strong>I wanted to end the chapter on a lighter note. So you can get your angsts-pants on for the next chapter. Reviews are very much appreciated.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**X.x.X**

**.**

The answer didn't come to Watson right away.

He stilled at the sudden crush into his space, his blue eyes wide with shock.

His hands were held up awkwardly.

Watson didn't know whether to grab Holmes by his shirt, braces..._by everything _and just pull him in until no space separated them. Or whether to say _dreams-come-true-be-damned,_ and shove his flatmate away to ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing.

Because with Holmes one could never know.

Watson hesitantly brought his hands towards his friend, holding a fistful of Holmes's trousers on each thigh.

Then Holmes pulled away from the chaste kiss to look down at his flatmate. Watson's blue eyes still remained wide, confused and thoroughly searching. He wanted to know the motive behind this but he'll be damned if he dared to speak first and break_ this_.

Whatever_ this_ was.

Holmes had a heavy look about him; his face mirroring a very diluted form of his usual calculating demeanour, his gray eyes half lidded, slightly dilated and darker than Watson had ever experienced them being.

Dilated pupils and_...Holmes. Oh god, oh-_

-He could not fathom what he was seeing. It just did not seem to fit with anything in regards to the buildup of the man called Sherlock Holmes. Something that was meant to be right in front of him was painfully amiss.

The doctor swallowed, easing away the breath he had been holding.

"...Watson," the detective murmured hoarsely above him, his breath hot against his partner's face as he stood, bent towards him. _That voice_, saying his name in _that tone_ was all it took for Watson to successfully delude himself into the answer he needed for the moment.

Then Holmes's eyes lowered by a splinter, and his lips were on his again; soft, pressing and gentle.

Watson took the detective's advice this time, and he turned it over in his thoughts.

_Don't think...just feel, John Watson._

He felt Holmes hands tentatively reaching and cradling the back of his head, his fingers relaxing as nestled webs into his hair. Watson moved forward to take a desperate possession to the kiss, but his friend calmly pushed him back into the sofa, as though saying _'just allow me'_, and edged closer towards Watson until he was atop the sofa, straddling him.

The doctor resigned himself completely to Holmes, and moved a hand to rest on the back of his friend's waist-they settled there with such eerie perfection. He buried the other into the detective's loose curls, pulling him in and attempting to close every space between them.

He eased against the couch as Holmes tongue persuaded his mouth open in the slowest -_and to Watson_, most alarming pace.

In all of his unending thoughts of such a scenario between the both of them occurring, this was one he had never imagined.

Holmes kissing him.

Holmes kissing him _with such gentleness._

It stole his breath away with every second his lips were pressed against the detective's.

Watson broke the contact with a gasp, and they both took in each other's air, before their lips met again, gently kneading.

_This was good,_ Watson thought, realizing he was in fact, thinking. It was just too good...having his arms so full of Holmes, acquiring an overloading sample of his taste, his scent, his touch...everything. _It was everything_; everything he had not allowed himself to imagine and Watson realized in alarm that he couldn't have it. He couldn't let himself have it.

He couldn't...

Watson broke off from the contact suddenly, his crystalline eyes wild with an unbearable revelation.

"I can't..." he rasped.

Holmes stilled at his position. He slowly unlaced his fingers from the doctor's blond locks to rest loosely against Watson's shoulders. They were trembling by the slightest of measures, Watson realized and a new, strange form of guilt hit him wildly against his chest.

_What am I doing?_

Holmes's expression remained stoic, but his eyes had widened by the smallest fraction that could only ever be noticeable to Watson as he managed to look into the detective's eyes.

Holmes sighed, removing himself from the doctor.

He paced across the room, and Watson watched him cautiously because this was new. This was different, and he didn't know what to expect from either of them.

He raked through his head trying to make an assumption of what Holmes might say to dissolve the entire situation. Watson reasoned that it would be something along the lines of _'I was trying to gain a firsthand experience on the effects of intimacy on the human body, for an experiment. Thus, you see, I had to assert myself upon you, Watson'. _And on cue, the doctor would yell, like he always did over many of the detective's odd experiments, and accept it as such.

An experiment.

One that he wouldn't dare take to heart as anything more than just that.

And then they could go back to being them. Watson would go back to being helplessly in love with his best friend, and praying in the same breath that Holmes would never know, and Holmes would _never, ever_ reciprocate these feelings.

**X.x.X**

**.**

His flatmate stopped at the study table before turning to Watson.

"I made an airy assumption."

Watson's thoughts broke away at the sound of Holmes's voice. The words that he heard from his friend's lips were the least expected.

"Wait, _what_?" He faltered.

Holmes parted his lips to speak and then shut them, running his hands through his disheveled hair in apprehension. He tried speech once again.

"I assumed that the root of..._this_ was mutual because you responded favorably to my actions. It was quite the irrational path, but-" Holmes paused, finding in irritation that his reasoning would not aid him further with words. He settled to plainly stare at Watson and wait patiently to allow the idea sink in.

Watson gaped at his friend because he couldn't afford_ not_ to.

"Holmes. Are you implying..."

"That the absolutely _human _concept generally applied to affections has befallen me? Ah, if that is in fact what you are trying to ask, Watson, then do feel free to come to the obvious conclusion." He shrugged, falling back into his armchair. He watched Watson, deconstructing every emotion as it came to the man's features; as his blue eyes widened in realization.

Watson forced himself to breathe.

_Holmes._

_The _Sherlock Holmes, who operated solely on the singular, wanted him. Holmes was in love with him and he wanted him, _he wanted_ Watson. His head raked as he tried to pen the information down in his memory. It struggled to accept the idea as fact.

"I find myself in the same dilemma." Watson muttered; his fingers intertwined to stop them from shaking so pathetically.

Holmes looked at him, seemingly lost. He was about to ask the doctor to restate his words when Watson cut him short.

"I find myself in love with you."

The detective looked at him in a pensive manner, before his expression stilled into its usual, stoic form.

"Oh." Holmes answered, unable to fight away the sound of relief that flowed along with that single word.

Watson gave a small smile at that, but it all soon gave way to an unbearable silence.

The detective of course, could not sit through this sort of silence once again. He stood up from his chair, pacing the room.

If Watson fancied him in the same mannerisms as he did Watson, then why was he reluctant to indulge in these affections? It puzzled him that he couldn't find the root of whatever was causing Watson to push away.

A problem it was..._a fear._

He stopped his strides, facing the windows that gave no light. His shoulders mirrored his tension as he spoke.

"What is it that you are afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid. I'm _just_-"

"Something about the idea bothers you. And I happen to be the person on the other end of this, Watson. It would only be helpful for me to know the reasons for such a resolve."

Watson bit his lip, until he could almost taste the metallic tinges which now lay a thin layer away from surfacing. How was he supposed to explain this to Holmes without sounding like an utterly selfish, self-destructive arse-of-a-man?

"You fear that we would not last. You fear for what you will cause me- pain, anger and all other overbearing emotions affiliated with a relationship. You greatly underestimate me, Watson."

"No, Holmes. I'm afraid of what_ we_ would do to _us."_

_ "_That on one such bright morning, you will wake up from beside me, and you won't be able to look into _my _face because whatever it is that burns so bright in this room at this moment would be faded into a spectacularly blank canvas. Into nothing. And I won't be able to be there as a friend, a lover...as anything. I can't- _I can't let that become of us_." Watson shook as he rambled, his hands clenching hard against his trousers.

This was so painful.

_It was so bloody painful._

Holmes was watching Watson, an unreadable expression glazing around his face until it morphed into a burning anger, sweeping his features with every other emotion he couldn't bring himself to justify.

"Watson, you can't control this! It is_ impossible_. It is the one thing I have come to accept grudgingly. Would you leave this behind you over such a probability?" His voice rose considerably.

Everything was slipping out of his hands and he couldn't gain a firm grasp to pull it back towards him.

It was maddening, it was terrifying.

_There was absolutely nothing thrilling about this feeling._

"What would you have me do?" Watson yelled back, panting.

Holmes was taken aback by his friend's uproar, and he forced himself to relax considerably. He shut his dark eyes for a short time, before taking slow strides towards his friend.

"'What_ would I have you do'_, you say. Walk right up here, kiss me, drag me up those stairs and have your way with me until I cannot come to any other deduction but you, _you._ _You,_ Watson."

Watson trembled at the words. "Oh God, Holmes. _I- I can't..."_

"That is what _you_ want. It is what I want. And what you should do..." He said lowly as he stopped before Watson. He took in a long, calming breath before stooping in front of his friend to catch a glimpse of Watson as he buried his head downwards in apprehension.

"...but you won't. And you don't have to, Watson." He whispered under him, and Watson looked down with wild eyes to engage his. Holmes bit his bottom lip as he watched his friend.

They both were so miserable and he couldn't help but frown bitterly at the thought. The one idea that was meant to ensure happiness, however momentarily, was like a plague to the both of them. Tearing at them, causing a thrashing pain even before the feeling became acknowledged.

It went without the need for punctuation now that they were in fact, not normal.

_No, not normal at all._

But it just might be alright that way.

"I cannot _not_ have you in my life in any form whatsoever...it's the thing I fear." Watson managed an explanation. He seemed to be striving for anything to make his friend understand.

Holmes understood, so he nodded. "I know, Watson."

Watson raised his hands tentatively to hold both sides of Holmes's face. The detective did not stop him. He edged closer into the touch instead, and it broke Watson.

It broke him to know that_ he_ was breaking his friend.

Holmes brought a hand to clasp against one of Watson's, his dark eyes boring into him.

"The only means of ensuring stability is where we are. I understand that. Don't think _for a second _that you are forcing me to abide by this resolve you have taken upon yourself. You know me better than that, Watson." His fingers clenched tighter against his friend's at that, taking the doctor by surprise.

It was no surprise that Holmes could see the guilt on his face. The man was trying in his own way to reassure him that he was alright with this; that they could do without indulging in these feelings. Watson truly did not know if he could.

But he nodded.

Holmes sighed, and they lingered for a long moment in silence; their hands still intact in their positions. Watson visibly relaxed with the silence, his breaths thinning into its even pace.

"If we cannot fall into these affections, then we have no other choice but to conquer it."

Watson's hand fell from his friend's face and Holmes's left his. He watched as the detective sprung from the floor. Of course it was true but it definitely stung to hear it.

His lips twisted wryly.

"How...just how are we supposed to do that Holmes?"

The detective shrugged. "I don't know. But there must be a way out which I'm currently unaware of."

He disappeared with that, heading into the kitchen.

Holmes returned quickly with two glasses in hand, and a whiskey bottle. He set it on the table, blatantly ignoring the obviously confused stare coming from Watson.

Watson watched as his friend pushed a glass towards him, leaving his own in the same position and serving himself first. Then Holmes walked all the way towards the other side of the table to pour in the drink for the doctor.

He knew it was on purpose; Holmes's way of trying to alleviate the tension if only for a moment. Watson fought a small smile tugging at his lips despite their condensing situation.

"Holmes,"

"Yes?" He cocked his head to the side, sparing his friend a quick glance as he stood beside him.

Watson sat upright on the sofa. "What_ exactly _are you doing?"

The doctor took the glass of whiskey served to him anyway.

Holmes screwed the bottle shut, placing it on the table beside Watson knowingly, before settling calmly into his armchair.

"Ah, _this_." He picked his own glass from the table, staring into it with calculation. Then he turned his focus to Watson.

"A small token for a prayer..."

The detective smiled when Watson looked at him as if he had gone truly mad.

"I'm not even going to ask." The doctor murmured into his glass, looking away from the said mad-man. The _mad-man_ he absolutely, hopelessly loved_._

Holmes was still staring at him, almost childishly, waiting for him to ask.

"What for, Holmes?" He bit out, looking at his friend.

The detective finally reclined into the comfort of his chair, his gray eyes never losing hold of Watson's.

"A small, _rare _prayer. That this unforgiving madness planted before us does not consume us before we have a chance to conquer it." Holmes stated, his eyes lingering on Watson for but a second, before he retreated his gaze to the glass in his hand. He drained the contents at once.

Watson appeared taken aback, but quickly followed, draining his glass and reaching for the bottle. As he poured the whiskey into his glass and lifted it to his lips, he prayed desperately that Holmes's prayer_...their prayer_ would come to pass.

It just had to.

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><p><strong> Reviews are very much appreciated. I would love to hear what is likedconstructive critiques about it~**


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